


Foist Hamlet

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Brother/Sister Incest, Canon ages, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Mild Cock Worship, Mild Stream of Consciousness, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage Sex, mild voyeurism kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: In Marnie's opinion, family should take care of one another.
Relationships: Mary | Marnie/Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers, Mary | Marnie/Nezu | Piers, Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Kudos: 15





	1. Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Why is it a 3P pairing? It's because it's been on my list since February as a "why not?" project, and I think two little lovers would make Piers feel even worse than one, so 3P it is. If Piers is racked by soul-wretching guilt, it's way better for me. And tbh, I wanted to do some mild two-person blowjob scenes. Plus, Piers just radiates "siscon" energy to me tbh even if I immensely prefer NZMS tbh...Leon has the same thing going for him but it's "Charizard and brocon" energy...
> 
> Also swapped to a different style again, slightly more "quicker-paced" since I want something a bit more "analytic with hints of mania." Also wanted to play with prose and punctuation again. Also imposed a time limit since I want to learn to work faster...ironically enough though, this one took longer because I got busy irl...though this is also fic #10 for the Piers/Victor tag as of posting which I'm rather happy about since double digits (and also my 30th posted work on this site).
> 
> Also depending on how you view Piers's reaction, this can be either dubcon or actual noncon. It's just eh...I hate unambiguous situations...room for interpretation is always cooler. Gonna leave the extra warning here since tagging both would be confusing, and I feel it's a bit "softer" than what noncon implies (ie. expectations are different, and I don't want to falsely advertise).
> 
> Everything is also done. I just split the work again. Final chapter will go up in 2-4 days.

It is only natural for family to take care of one another.

Family should _want_ to take care of one another. Those are her beliefs.

From the quick-footed foxes, child-rearing entrusted to the group, to the dapple-breasted birds, familial care taken as a duet of two, the act of growth—the act of _fostering_ growth—is instinctive, wholly natural, nature’s intended state, and wholly innate, woven into being at the moment of conception or perhaps even before such a stage if one believes the religious.

No matter the species—even the solitary snake buries her eggs to protect them—it is only natural for family, kin, to take care of one another.

Pragmaticism, bloodline advancement, or perhaps even love in all of its forms—platonic to romantic to familial or some combination of all three.

Storge; philia; eros; agape.

No matter the name and no matter the reason, every being—human, beast, some in-between or some outer existence—must, desires to rather, come together in some form of the word.

No matter what comes first—fondness stemming from pragmaticism or pragmaticism stemming from fondness—loneliness and desolation, isolation, are the decomposers of the soul, burrowing into flesh and brain and compassion like worms into earth.

One cannot survive alone, and one, humans in particular, cannot survive without some form of love.

Pairs, trios, flocks, any other equivalency—bestial, civilized, or some amalgamation of everything.

No matter the descriptor—does it really matter what one describes it (themselves) as? Thinks of it (us) as?—no one can survive alone, no one _desires_ to be alone.

Thus, it is only natural that she likes her brother in his entirety. No matter his faults (of which there are many if one so deigns to ask her), she likes him.

Why would she not? As the one closest to her in all but time—their parents are arguably the only ones who know her longer and even then, it is only in the physical sense, not emotional—he is the one who she adores the most, loves the most.

Perhaps her love should be directed towards their parents—it is only natural for children to love their parents—but it isn’t. Why should it? Neither their mother nor their father are home all too much—work, minuscule as it is, and play, gambling debt and blinded by casino lights, are their given reasons—and they hadn’t cared all too much until her brother had become famous (or infamous if one asks the simpleminded and foolish).

Atrocious, abominable, entirely unfit—unnatural—for the predetermined ways of the world.

What parent, mother or father, leaves their child undefended, forced to scramble for work? She knows the reason for why Piers had taken on the Gym Challenge—alcohol always loosens lips, and Raihan has never been the most secretive of individuals—and she can infer the reason for his previous acceptance of Spikemuth’s Gym Leader position.

Unlike most jobs in Galar, there isn’t an age limit—might reigning over age and experience—but still, it doesn’t quite pay as much, not with Spikemuth’s location. Despite their status as one of the final roadblocks before the Champion, the salary isn’t particularly spectacular, not like Motostoke’s or even Stow-on-Side’s.

Though perhaps, that is part of the reason. They don’t get as many challengers—no incentive for increased funding—nor are they one of the first cities that tourists and challengers see.

They aren’t Hulbury with its port, Stow-on-Side with its thriving markets, or even simple Postwick, achievements tied to farming and to its status as the birthplace of two of Galar’s more prodigious Champions.

Certainly, the graffiti is interesting, but there isn’t much else to Spikemuth.

Spikemuth is, in all sense of the word, a place where one goes to or remains in to die in mediocrity with very few exceptions.

Harsh perhaps, but even at her age, she—her brother then too—understands that well enough.

Their parents are prime examples.

Nonetheless, digressions aside, she understands the reasons for his leaving and his eventual return.

Undoubtedly, personal continuance is one—as expected of any living, sentient being—but it is also because of her.

Her, her, she herself.

Obligation with familiarity and fondness intertwined—she knows the reason well enough. She doesn’t need words to understand, not with how her brother looks at her, eyes always soft and warm, and with how he treats her, fingertips always gentle as they stroke through her hair, calloused skin pressing against the scalp, on the evenings when she has nightmares.

Her brother has always treated her well, more than well even.

Thus, it is only natural that she likes him.

It is only natural that she wants to care for him as he does for her—more than he does.

It is abhorrent to feel as she does—she won’t deny that. She isn’t a fool—but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.

Some sin, some contrivance of some false deity—men imposing their views rather than any true divinity—of the long gone past. That is what it is in her opinion.

What farce! What mockery of everything natural! Is it not natural, instinctive, for one to want to take care of family? It surely is. It must be. That is her belief. It must be.

It must be.

But still, she isn’t a fool.

No matter how her brother looks at her, eyes warm and always softening no matter his present concerns, he won’t accept her as she is—still young and diminutive.

She knows him well enough.

Her chest is too slight, breasts only beginning to swell in preparation for adolescence; her dress size too small, belonging to the children’s section rather than women’s petite; and her body having not begun menstruation yet.

She knows him well enough.

He wouldn’t accept her as she is now, childish and; in his unsaid opinion, temporarily infatuated. Her brother is rather oblivious at times—she would be the first to admit that—but they know each other well enough, a consequence of their relation and years of knowing one another.

They _should_ know each well enough.

Thus, she doesn’t understand why he would choose someone else—someone he knows less of and someone her age for that matter.

If age isn’t a problem, why not her? It isn’t a problem of her sex. She has seen him with both men and women before, albeit all easily unfit—all too bland and below par—to stand beside him.

She knows it isn’t simple ignorance. Even if she has never outwardly voiced her affections, he must know. They are related after all.

Furthermore, she has noticed his pause before, hand quickly withdrawing and eyes turning away in the moments when her touch lingers too long—unacceptable even for siblings. It couldn’t be disdain either. She wouldn’t like him so much if that were the case.

She isn’t a masochist.

Thus, with all things considered, she couldn’t quite understand why her brother would accept Victor’s affections so readily.

He doesn’t quite say it, but she could tell well enough even without his explicit confirmation.

Unlike her brother, she can be rather perceptive at times. She notices the increasing frequency of Victor’s visits, the slight nervousness in Victor's gaze whenever he sees her, and her brother's sudden propensity for sweaters and turtlenecks.

Her brother has never liked the heat, not like her.

She doesn’t dislike Victor—he is her friend after all, and she would consider him to be noticeably above average in comparison to her brother’s usual paramours—but he isn’t her.

She simply doesn’t understand why it isn’t her.

Nonetheless, despite everything, she doesn’t keep silent on the matter. She isn’t able to.

Not with what she knows of herself and her brother.

They should know one another.

Of course, she doesn’t hold her brother’s relationship over him—that isn’t what family does—but she doesn’t allow it to dull her words either.

Instead, she tells him during their evening ritual—they on his bed with she sitting cross-legged in front near the edge and his hands in her hair, undoing the ribbons of her pigtails and untangling knots. A brush sits upon her left thigh, wooden handle smooth and cool against warm skin.

At eleven—nearly twelve—years of age, she is a bit too old for this sort of routine, but she doesn’t mind it all too much even if her brother gently chides her about it, more habit than any true irritation.

He never could quite say “no” to her, and with their increasingly busy schedules, they don’t have many other opportunities to spend time together.

She doesn’t mind the faint smell of cigarette smoke—her brother never could quite stop, and baking soda and scented candles alongside the occasional air freshener spritz haven’t helped—the faint creaking of the bed as he shifts, or the soft, almost inaudible thrum of his heartbeat, organ beating with each inhale and exhale, breath warm upon her neck despite the relatively long distance and tinged with the faintest hint of mint.

“I like you.” The words are simple as that even as her brother’s fingers still, index and middle still halfway through with a particularly stubborn knot, before continuing, easygoing as before.

“Mmhmm,” comes her brother’s reply, voice low and even. “I like you too.”

She shakes her head, motion soft. “No, I mean I _like_ you. Like Victor does.”

Her brother doesn’t pause this time, fingers still tugging carefully at the knot in her hair, nor does he object to her accusation. “You don’t. You don’t know what that means.”

“And Victor does?” she retorts though her brother doesn’t reply. He only pulls at a ribbon—pink fabric held between thumb and index—and she feels it loosen, hair eventually cascading to cover the side of her neck. “He’s the same age as me.”

Another finger draws through her hair, undoing another tangle.

“I don’t see why you like him more,” she continues. “You’ve only met him last year—less than a year even.”

It is rather fussy of her—eleven months and sixteen days is nearly a year—but at the very least, it draws a reply from her brother.

She doesn’t quite like silence, not from her brother anyhow.

“It’s different,” he finally replies, fingers still combing through her hair. She feels the other ribbon loosen before slipping off. “I like you both, but it’s different.”

“How so?” She feels the familiar prickling of tears though they don’t quite fall. Instead, she quickly rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. She doesn’t mean to cry—she doesn’t want to be a crybaby anymore—but she couldn’t quite help it.

She isn’t used to her brother keeping secrets.

“It just is,” he says. She feels his hands gather her hair together into a ponytail before releasing his grip once more, dark strands falling. “I’m not lyin’ to you or anythin’. It’s just…different. I like you both, just in different ways. Trust me, Marnie.”

Marnie sniffles. Despite her best efforts, she can already feel tears further forming, droplets now wetting the corners of her eyes.

“Then”—her voice wavers—“why can’t you like me like him?”

“I can’t,” he says, and Marnie feels his fingers once again move through her hair, motion smooth because of the lack of knots. “Can you pass me the brush? It’s gettin’ late.”

She doesn’t move. “Why not?”

“I just can’t.” Low and even just as before. Despite her own distress and his words, there isn’t much change in brother’s voice—no irritation or impatience, only candidness.

“But why?”

Because it’s…” Her brother pauses for a moment. “It’s not right. We’re related.”

“So?” She doesn’t quite understand his reluctance. “I like you, and you like me, right? What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not somethin’ you do, Marnie,” he says. “Please, can you pass me the brush?”

The back of his hand settles softly upon her shoulder, knuckles pressing against the bare skin and upon the thin strap of her camisole, though she doesn’t reply.

She only turns to face him, bed creaking and brush falling to and clattering upon the floor, as his hand withdraws from her shoulder.

She wouldn’t describe his expression as angry, annoyed, or even simply disappointed. Instead, his expression, as cliché as it is to describe it as such, is more akin to a deer or perhaps a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights—jaw clenched and eyes wide and glancing elsewhere, flickering briefly to her face before returning to the wall behind her.

“Just tell me you don’t like me,” she says, and his eyes flicker to her face once more before once again moving to look elsewhere—anywhere but truly at her. “Just say it, an-and I won’t mention it anymore.”

Once again, her voice wavers, cracking, and she feels the familiar swell of tears within her chest—tight, hurting, and not unlike a well after an autumn rainstorm.

Another sniffle unwittingly leaves her, and she feels a wetness upon her cheek—tears finally beginning to fall—before a hand, her brother’s, moves to gently wipe them away.

The tears running down her cheeks, the hand upon her face, and the near-sobbing; gasping and words hiccuped.

Outside of their ages and forms, it is a near-imitation of their younger days—she prone to crying and her brother comforting. She doesn’t want to be a crybaby anymore nor does she want to distress her brother, not as she used to anyhow, but she couldn't quite still everything.

But still, it isn’t quite the same, not when her brother leans forward to press a closemouthed kiss against her lips rather than her forehead or cheek.

It isn’t a true response—true acceptance or true denial—but it enough of one for her. It must be.

It isn’t quite right, but it is. It must be seen as such.

To say otherwise would be a denial of everything—her beliefs, her resolve, and her herself.

Family must take of each other, and most importantly, she knows her brother well enough.


	2. Choke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Marnie's opinion, family should take care of one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Workin' on a ficlet right now since I want a breather...500-1000 words hopefully and not something like this that ballooned into 3k+ words more than I wanted...
> 
> Please consider the warning in the tags and in the previous author's notes. I have left room for interpretation for whether it's dubcon or noncon, and this chapter is where it goes to a head for everyone I think.
> 
> Also, I don’t like to randomly shove characters into 3P pairs, so yeah...as much as I adore him, Victor’s here for a reason.
> 
> I often prefer a "cruelty in softness" approach when I do "artsy" pieces, so please consider my warnings. (´・ω・｀)

Victor doesn’t complain about her presence, but she hadn’t expected him to. Much like her brother, he could be rather obvious at times. Moreover, he, more so than most, desires affection. He wouldn’t object to her presence.

He likes her brother too much for that, wants his approval too much for that.

He wouldn’t complain, and she has seen how he looks at her—curiosity and strange warmth, paradoxical platonic and contrary romantic, meshed with greed. It isn’t affection in the truest sense—it isn’t quite like how he, she rather, looks at her brother—but is close enough. It suits her enough, and she hadn’t expected differently.

Even during their first meeting, she had noticed it: the timid shuffling alongside a soft, unassuming voice. Perhaps it is assumptive of her—it shouldn’t be, it mustn’t be—but Victor isn’t the sort to decline attention, not of this nature anyhow.

A desire for monopolization combined with a desire for affection.

That is who he is—avarice both hidden by and discernible by an ordinary demeanor.

He wouldn’t deny her, not with what she knows of him.

However, it isn’t quite as she wants.

Outside of that chaste kiss, her brother doesn’t touch her, nothing that could be considered more than a sibling’s fondness.

Loose-armed hugs, fingers ruffling her hair, and kisses—always upon the forehead or cheek and never upon the lips.

By themselves, they aren’t quite what she wants or rather, they aren’t what she herself wants to _give_.

Instead, she finds herself set aside, cast aside even, in favor of Victor.

It isn’t that her brother dislikes her. He treats her as much the same as before but that in itself is the problem.

It isn’t what Victor has.

Her brother doesn’t touch her like he does Victor.

As secretive as he unfortunately is, she still notices. She notices as she should.

Fingers intertwined in a manner that could not be considered platonic, a playfulness that could not be considered purely amicable teasing, and a softness—reverence—that is wholly unacceptable for anyone other than a lover.

It isn’t a public occurrence—they’re rather distant in public—but she notices well enough in the privacy of their home, especially after their kiss.

Nightly, nightly, nightly.

It is near-nightly, always on the days that Victor visits—stays overly frequent in comparison to before.

She notices the occasions when the guest bedroom’s door creaks, sock-adorned feet soon pattering softly on the wooden flooring followed by the clicking of a turning doorknob alongside a closing door, and always minutes later, muffled speech then sometimes replaced by a certain, similarly muffled highness—tone and reason still unmistakable for anything other than the act of copulation.

Perhaps she shouldn’t notice—her brother is certainly secretive enough—but she does.

How could she not? Their rooms aren’t set next to one another, but the walls are rather thin, and more importantly, she knows her brother.

It couldn’t be her brother on a midnight bathroom trip. Even when returning to his room, he never closes his door, instead preferring to leave it ajar—a leftover habit for when she used to visit for her nightmares.

As often as it occurs—should she not be used to it by now?—it, sounds interspersing with her own imagination, causes her eyes to water, tears prickling and wetting her pillow case.

Repetitious as the ticking of a clock’s hands—the clicking of the lock, the light patter of footsteps, and the slow thump of a closing door.

She couldn’t quite stand it—too loud, too monotonous, and too undeserving in her opinion—and thus, she finds herself leaving her bed one-night, bare feet meeting wood with a soft thump just as her brother’s door clicks shut, deafening despite the distance between their rooms.

Her footsteps aren’t quite as soft as Victor’s—she doesn’t have socks on after all—but she continues, nonetheless, even as she feels her chest tighten, familiar and preluding an onslaught of tears.

Pass the linen closet, pass the bathroom, and toward the end of the hallway, corridor dimly lit by moonlight peering in through the gap in the window curtains.

Brass smooth and cool underneath her hand—overly familiar—the doorknob turns easily enough, clicking out of place as the door swings forward.

Naturally, surprise comes—the wide-eyed looks, both blue and brown, are proof enough of that—but she pays them no real mind. Even their state of dress and their closeness doesn’t bother her.

It doesn’t bother her to see them like this—her brother, sweatpants and boxers drawn down and hand buried in soft, brown strands, with Victor kneeling in-between his legs in a similarly disheveled state—even as she feels a familiar wetness upon her cheeks, tears now streaming unbidden.

Childish, overly childish. She doesn’t want to be childish, but she couldn’t quite stop them even as she moves forward—bare feet meeting wood and resounding in the near-silence like a drum—and kneels before her brother, shoulder bumping against Victor’s and knees meeting hard ground as she settles.

Her brother’s thigh is soft beneath her palm, both flesh and cloth wet from her dripping tears, as she leans forward and presses her mouth against his erect cock—spit, Victor’s, already present and staining her lips.

A noise leaves her brother’s lips at the motion, but he doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t touch her.

He doesn’t touch her even as she feels him tense and Victor move beside her, leaning forward once more not to stop her but to press his lips against the other side of her brother's cock. Briefly, she feels his cheek brush against hers, damp strands of hair tickling her face.

Clumsy and cramped. That is how she would describe everything. She isn’t all too adept at everything, and Victor isn’t either, not with her there as well anyhow.

Shoulder brushing uncomfortably against Victor’s, and sweat, tears, and pre-cum intermingling, that is how she finds herself—tongue pushing against the base, coarse, dark hair tickling, and upward before moving downward once more.

She doesn’t mind the act itself—it is her brother after all—the noise he makes, half-pants mixed with indistinguishable mumbling, or the taste, salt upon slippery, slimy warmth. She rather likes it really—fluid pooling upon her tongue, consistency not quite unlike that of mucus and overly warm, before swallowing.

She doesn’t mind because it is her brother. She likes it because it is her brother—everything ranging from the smell to the taste to the sensation, lightly prickling hair and firm, veiny flesh.

It is her brother.

However, she couldn’t say that she quite likes everything. It isn’t a fault of her brother’s—she likes him too much for that—but a consequence of Victor’s presence.

It is in the way that he moves against her, wholly unintentional, in the noises he makes—soft, quickening breath interspersed with the occasional groan and yelp because of her brother’s grip tightening, fingers pulling him closer—and in Victor himself.

Too eager despite his own clumsiness and too sincere, kisses wet and tongue sliding alongside the veins and upon the length and balls.

She doesn’t care for him, not in this moment and in everything concerning her brother.

She doesn’t care for the faintness of her brother’s voice, still no more than a whisper but now audible, or for the words that leave his mouth, repetitious as a turning clock and the nights before.

It isn’t her name that he calls nor is it her hair that his fingers comb through tonight, paradoxically gentle yet rough and entirely sensual. It isn’t even her that he looks at nor is it the wall. Instead, he looks at Victor.

He doesn’t touch her as he should. Rather, it is someone else. It isn’t her right as it should be.

Family should take care of one another. That is her belief. It must be.

Tonight, he doesn’t wipe away her tears even as she feels them slide down her cheek and feels the tightness in her chest, near-heaving now even as she attempts to silence her sniffles. It couldn’t be called wailing—she isn’t loud enough for that—but she isn’t entirely quiet either.

Even when Victor threads their fingers together—how foolish! He doesn’t mean anything to her, not in this manner—in a childish attempt to comfort her, she couldn’t quite stop her tears or the faint trembling of her body.

Instead, she focuses on the task at hand, ignores the person beside her.

Upward and downward—small, pink tongue pushing against firm flesh, everywhere, and at the head of his cock, against the leaking slit. She doesn’t mean to—she means to—be feverous, shoulder bumping once more against Victor’s and hand still in his, grip excessively tight and near-bruising.

Though, Victor doesn’t complain. She hadn’t expected him to. He is too eager for that, too wanting for approval.

He doesn’t complain even when she moves, hand pushing against his thigh and nails digging into soft flesh, to engulf the head of her brother’s cock. It hurts of course—stretches her jaw too much and forces her to breathe shallowly through her nose, an already difficult task because of her crying—and she feels her teeth graze against the skin, but her brother doesn’t complain. She only hears another yelp from Victor as her brother's grip tightens in response, pulling at the roots with just enough force to avoid tearing.

She hadn’t expected her brother to. She knows him well enough.

He never complains when it comes to her.

She couldn’t quite move as much as she wants. Her mouth is still too small for that, and she can feel Victor’s hair brushing against her chin as he licks at the length and balls.

Uncomfortable. Cramped. Crowded.

Tonight’s motions should be an act of two, but it isn’t.

The only real solace that she finds tonight is in the act itself and in the idea—she and he and not with him.

No triad, no trio, no Trinity.

Only a song—a duet—of two.

Even when he cums in her mouth instead of Victor’s, there is no true pleasure to it—not in the way she wants—and when she withdraws, her eyes only continue to water as she wipes her mouth with the back of free hand. When her brother pulls Victor, not her, by the hand and onto the bed, she follows suit, her hand still firmly clasped in Victor’s.

She doesn’t want to touch Victor—he isn’t hers in any sense of the word—but she doesn’t want her brother touching him any further either.

She won’t let her brother touch him any further.

Thus, she finds herself pushing her hand pass the waistband of Victor’s pajama bottoms, cotton soft, and her palm against his cock, fingers grasping around the length.

It isn’t like her brother’s in any true sense. Certainly, there is the same erectness, but the sizes are different alongside the sensation—smooth, small and still immature, and lacking in hair and wet only from sweat and pre-cum rather than also spit and tears.

Victor doesn’t deny her—he’s too selfish for that—and her brother doesn’t either.

He adores her too much for that, and she both loves and loathes him, completely paradoxical in sentiment.

Clumsy and a bit harsh, nails digging into the sensitive flesh even as Victor whimpers, noise tinged with both pleasure and pain. The sensations aren’t enough for him to push her off, but she can see how her brother’s eyes flicker between her and him, overly hesitant.

It is as it should be, yet it isn’t. He should look at and only her, but he doesn’t. Even as she looks at him, his eyes don’t remain on her, too concerned about Victor yet stopped by his feelings for her.

There is no finesse in how her hand moves—no care as she tugs—but Victor doesn’t push her away. She only feels his grip upon her hand tighten, not enough to bruise like hers before.

Too nondiscriminatory and too considerate. Any attention will do.

Even when he cums, fluid more comparable to a trickle than to her brother’s and staining both her hand and his pajama bottoms, there isn’t a pleasure in it.

Only inevitability. She doesn’t want her brother touching him after all.

But still, despite everything, her brother doesn’t touch her either.

Instead, Victor does, hand fumbling underneath her camisole and sweaty palm pressing against her left breast. Much like with her motions before, there is a clumsiness to his, more mimicry—she can already feel a bile rise within her throat at the idea of him and her brother—than any true finesse or knowledge.

He squeezes too tightly, fingertips pressing into soft flesh—she wouldn’t be surprised if her brother prefers overt roughness—and most unfortunately, he’s _too close_.

He isn’t her brother.

But still, she doesn’t deny him in return, not with how her brother looks at her, or rather, how he looks at Victor—soft and affectionate and tinged with an intentness that could never be mistaken for anything platonic.

He doesn’t look at her like that.

Thus, she finds herself drawing Victor closer, pulling him by the hand forward and onto herself. It isn’t quite the same—her brother’s gaze isn’t directed at her—but it is close enough.

Victor doesn’t fuck her—neither she or her brother would allow that, and Victor isn’t the forceful sort—but he doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t stop him either even as his hand trails downward, thin fingers pushing into her panties, and as he presses a mouth against her breast—chapped, wet lips pressing against flesh and tongue swirling clumsily around the pink nub.

He isn’t all too adept—the brief pauses, less teasing and more unsure, are enough to confirm that—even as his fingers stroke against the skin, nails trailing, and press against her slit. He doesn’t finger her. She is rather glad for that considering the length of his nails. Instead, she feels him take her clit between his index and middle fingers and rub as her juices coat his hand, instinctual arousal a consequence of both earlier and the suckling upon her tit.

It isn’t entirely pleasant—he’s still too rough for that, too wholly inexperienced—but it isn’t unbearable. It couldn’t be wholly unbearable, not if she wants to keep her brother’s gaze.

At the very least, she still has his hand in hers—grip still tight.

When Victor removes his lips from her breast, he moves downward, and she almost expects him to bite—she knows her brother likes that—but he doesn’t. Instead, she feels his fingers leave her clit and move to the waistband of her panties as he then pulls, pastel pink silk sliding downward upon pale skin, before his hand settles upon her thigh, fingertips searing and unpleasantly lacking in callouses.

She isn’t fond of the chilliness—unlike her brother, she prefers heat and summer—but she can ignore it well enough, especially when she feels Victor’s tongue press against her slit, saliva mixing with slickness as it pushes against her folds, before it eventually slips in to press against her inner walls.

It isn’t as unpleasant as his fingers. Even with his inexperience, it is rather difficult to mess up in this sort of act—no teeth grazing painfully, no nails digging into sensitive skin, only a curious tongue prodding with a juvenile, careless inexperience and lips pressing against flesh.

But still, despite the noises that leave her—involuntary and more a consequence of stimulation than any true desire—it isn’t pleasurable.

Her brother still doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t touch her even as she hears the groan of the drawer, the creak of bedsprings, and the sound of fabric being pulled downward.

She doesn’t want her brother to touch him—she hates his trembling, the tightening grip of his hand, and everything about him, noisy and eager as he pushes back against her brother’s fingers—but she doesn’t want his gaze to leave her either.

It shouldn’t be him—she doesn’t want it to be him—but she doesn’t move, laid as she is upon the smoke-scented sheets like some tearstained sleeping beauty.

She couldn’t. She mustn’t.

Cacophonic—as muffled as Victor’s voice is, she can hear him clearly, whines high and panting and vibrating and intermingling with her brother’s voice.

She hates it when she feels the bed move, springs creaking loudly like the squeal of rusted gears, and when she feels Victor’s nails—they’re long, horribly so, but it is her brother’s preferences, not hers—into the soft flesh of her thigh, five crescents blotting red upon white.

It isn’t pleasurable, not in the manner that truly matters, and she doesn’t wrap her legs around him to force more contact even as she feels Victor’s tongue withdraw and begin to lick at her clit, motions uneven. She only trembles, waiting.

Why should she do as such? Show interest as such? He isn’t the one she wants.

Instead, it is a matter of waiting, a matter of inevitability.

Everything tonight isn’t quite what she wants—affections displaced, touch displaced, and attention displaced.

It isn’t her that her brother touches tonight, isn’t her that he thrusts into. It isn’t her that he looks at, isn’t her that he notices.

It isn’t quite right, but it is a bearable matter. It must be.

To say otherwise would be a denial of everything—her beliefs, her resolve, and her herself.

Family must take care of one another after all.

Everything tonight isn’t quite what she wants, but it is what she cums to, Victor’s tongue still moving, pushing, inside of her as her brother continues, thrusts even and gaze upon someone else.

Even when everything finishes—sheets stained, bodies separated, and smoke-tinged scent nearly vanished—it isn’t her that her brother touches, kisses openmouthed with a peculiar fervency.

It isn’t the touch—the voice, affection, and manner—that she wants when he loosely takes her by the hand and leads her to the adjoining bathroom. He doesn’t carry her there like he does Victor, gentle and careful even as everything dirties his clothes further.

Certainly, Victor is smaller than her, and certainly, he touches her now—bath having been set, she and Victor submerged up to the collarbone, and soap and shampoo rubbed into skin and hair—but it isn’t quite the same even as she feels her brother’s fingers comb through her wet hair.

But still, despite everything, she doesn't hate him.

She doesn't hate him.

She doesn’t hate him—she could never truly hate someone who likes her brother—but she doesn’t like him, not in this matter.

It is only natural that she doesn’t.

She could never love someone who stole away her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also should you take Piers at face value objectively? Probably not. Everything is filtered through Marnie's lens, and her opening words should bring into question her reliability and her "true" intent (subconscious or not). Furthermore, consider ages (and thus, "the ability to consent"). By default, it brings into question many things concerning everyone. I think readers should be able to "choose" their own interpretation in the end, and the ambiguity of everything is always nice. Whether everything is benign, malicious, or a combination of both should be up to the reader. It's fiction after all. Though, I do think Piers has a lot of difficulty saying "no" to his sister...hum...if you ignore your discomfort long enough, it will go away? That's certainly one of the things at play.
> 
> There's also the intentional blurring of pronouns and references in this hence why names so rarely appear outside of Victor's. It's one of my preferred tools tbh. Marnie, Piers, and Victor all have similar underlying issues and ideas at points I think. I like layered works, so there's a lot at play.
> 
> Though the sex scene is shorter this time than my usual stuff, but I expected that. I wanted to do something shorter. I decided to give Marnie the brother complex because why not? Piers always seems to get the sister complex, and he already got that in the other one I did. I did cut an actual pussy eating (and fingering) scene and the vaginal sex scene because well, I doubt Victor knows anything about that—he's not gonna be able to find the G-spot or anything like that—and if I consider personalities and motivations, it wouldn't make sense to have them, not with what I want for intent. Thus, it's rather short. I also tend to try for a more "classy" approach to these, so I'm working with a limited vocabulary compared to what I have in my raunchier, personal (not posted) works...sucks...but it just doesn't look right to use them in these. Reading a full-blown raunchy fiction with words like "baby batter" and "pussy lips/muff/etc." would ruin the mood I think.
> 
> It was also gonna be way more uncomfortable at points with references to wanting children, but then it's like eh...let's save that for something else. I can't show all my cards...I honestly don't have a lot of "squicks" in fiction funnily enough. I have them. I just don't have many. It just depends on what characters I'm working with that draw out certain themes or ideas.
> 
> Themes: Love, Care, Family, Platonic and Romantic, "Mother and Father"+"Sister and Brother", "Intruder/Usurper," Envy

**Author's Note:**

> The title's actually because I thought it'd be fun since Hamlet has a really questionable relationship with his mother, and there's a lot going on in the symbolic and subtext area. There's a bit of overlay between Marnie, Piers, and Victor here for Hamlet, Gertrude, and Claudius though it's not stated in this fic explicitly outside of notes. More authorial intent and purpose and all that. Though...there's less ghosts and madness (well...depends on how you view everything) here...but whatever...it's my fic...I wouldn't consider it a "one-for-one" but intent and all...It's also very intentional in how both Marnie's and Piers's names rarely appear in this, symbolic and all that.
> 
> Dunno what I'll do next as my "main" project. I want to do something meaty since I'm going through Stith Thompson's Motif-Index of Folk-Literature right now, and I always love a lot of classic literature (east and west)..I'm honestly also tempted to do a "Fate servant" AU (more mini oneshot than anything novel-length since a full Grail War is balls-long, and I'd have to consider an ensemble cast which is oof...really long and about a month or two of just planning before drafting...) or a "Incubus" AU w/ Victor/Piers, or a "Ghost" AU with Raihan/Victor but hum...


End file.
